Seven Deadly Sins
by Fade131
Summary: Seven separate parts, seven pairings, all sin.
1. Ira

**Ira **- Itachi x Sasuke**  
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_Wrath, noun - strong, stern, or fierce anger; deeply resentful indignation; ire._

He's blinded by it.

More than anything, his anger drives him. It's nearly a tangible thing, the passionate desire for violence that overtakes him when they encounter each other again - _finally_- and Itachi smirks at him, Sharingan eyes surveying him like a disobedient child.

And here Itachi thought he was the sightless one.

They clash - as always; Sasuke is far too hasty when they fight each other, rushing to attack with no consequences considered. It doesn't register that this is a problem until it's far too late, until he's torn and bleeding - _but is he really?_- and barely on his feet, desperate to reach his brother just one more time, to try just one more attack, to lash out, to land even a single hit, to find out if this too is just a dream-

Stillness.

He screams - _he thinks he screams_ - desperate, hatred bubbling to the surface, laced with fear, shot through with agony. He must have looked into his brother's eyes - _god, when did he look?_- because he can't really be on his knees, one trembling hand propping him up as the other grasps at his face, covering the gaping hole where his eye used to be, blood oozing thickly between his fingers. He can barely think - what rationality he had left under all that anger is drowned now in pain, and he gasps raggedly for breath. He can't stop shaking.

Distantly, a jar being opened - the distinct _plop_ of something being dropped in liquid - his stomach turns, he's dizzy, the pain is so much that it's numbing now. He's going to pass out, he thinks, as his brother's long fingers catch under his chin and tilt his head up. A whole new wave of nausea rolls through him at the sight of the jar - _this had to be_ **real**_, how could it be real?_- but Itachi doesn't seem to notice, gently removes Sasuke's hand from his face, grins.

Sadistic. Twisted. He wants to scream again. He hates this, hates feeling so helpless, hates being here at his brother's mercy, hates knowing he's failed. It burns through him. Maybe it's enough. Itachi's hand moves, poised over his remaining eye, blunt nails pressing lightly into the delicate skin of his eyelid.

It's enough. Sasuke moves - almost falls as he pushes his brother away, over on to the ground because he couldn't possibly get up and he can't fight with Itachi looming over him like that - pushes him and follows the motion, catching up a kunai that he'd used earlier and digging the point into the pale flesh of his brother's throat, straddling his oddly still form.

Blood slips down his cheek. His head is spinning. Itachi is just looking up at him, eyes flat black and unfeeling - _unseeing_- and Sasuke can't even register the tears falling from his intact eye. The shaking he can't seem to stop makes the edge of the blade shift against Itachi's skin. That longer-fingered hand moves again, delicately closing around his wrist, steadying the kunai against his neck.

"Will you do it?" he murmurs - the first coherent thing either has said. Sasuke just stares at him, and it's difficult to have an answer because he's lost so much blood, because he can't think anything beyond _hate-kill-punish_ and Itachi's blank expression cracks into a smile that chills him. This isn't his brother anymore, this man underneath him, this person with blood drying under his fingernails, this thing that laughs at his trembling inability to form the thoughts, _this isn't his brother-_

He loses the kunai as quickly as he gained it, grip too weak to keep Itachi from slipping it out of his shaking fingers, but it isn't used against him - he has enough wounds already anyway, bleeding gashes litter his pale skin, his white shirt covered in blooms of bright red - but tossed aside. He's shaking more than ever now. His anger is deserting him, leaving him broken and empty as Itachi's hand travels up his arm, fingertips trailing over his torn shirt, nails skimming his collarbone, his throat, sticky from the blood on his cheek, threading through his tangled hair and tightening painfully in dark locks to drag him down.

Maybe he screams again - weak and breathless against Itachi's lips, shuddering as the older Uchiha shifts his weight and rolls them over, pinning his wrists above his head with one hand, grip so tight Sasuke swears he can feel his bones grind together. Maybe again when he realizes what's happening - when Itachi's hips move against his own and his traitorous body responds, sick desire twisting through him as he arches up against his brother's body.

He's panting now, swollen lips parted, head thrown back, barely registering the hands that carelessly cut his clothes from him, leaving red scratches on his arms, his hip, his thighs. Itachi isn't holding him down anymore and Sasuke doesn't know when he stopped. Half-formed pleas are muffled as Itachi's lips catch his own once more, that hand - why had he always focused so intently on his brother's hands? - wrapping around his aching cock, stroking him, practiced and sure.

Their lips part and the other hand, the one not currently making him arch and mewl, smooths his cheek. Fingers thread through his hair, gently brushing back his sweaty bangs, trailing through the drying blood on his skin. Itachi murmurs something that Sasuke doesn't catch, leans in and purr against his ear and _laughs_when Sasuke writhes beneath him.

Hazy thoughts - he's never been so disoriented in his life - he doesn't remember Itachi moving him, doesn't know how he ended up with his legs pushed up towards his chest, decides this can't be real when his brother enters him, slick and hard and not waiting for him to adjust. He's been taken before, more times than he can count, but never like this, never rough and unforgiving, and it hasn't hurt quite like this in a while. He shudders, lips part to beg for stillness, for just the moment because some sick part of him wants this to feel good like he knows it would if he could breathe for just a second, but nails scratch skin and Itachi's fingers frame his eye once more.

Sasuke doesn't dare move. His brother watches him, dark eyes clouded with lust, his movements slower now, the hand that doesn't threaten the last of his vision trailing teasingly over Sasuke's erection. He moans and it's painful, weak, little noises falling from his lips as he tries not to arch into his brother's thrusts. Itachi tilts his head to the side, considering him and, almost as an afterthought, shifts enough to alter the angle.

He's screaming again and he doesn't know why. The pain is overwhelming, mind-blowing, he's never felt anything like it before but he can move again now and he's shuddering and digging his nails into his brother's strong shoulders as Itachi hits _just there_ and if he had any vision left it would be going white with pleasure or pain or both. The older Uchiha is speaking again, in that low heated rasp that finally betrays how close he is, but Sasuke can't hear him, can't think past the pain and the pleasure and the shuddering rush as his orgasm rips through him-

Sunlight streams through the trees, flickering and speckled as the leaves shift in the wind, alternately casting shadows across Sasuke's pale face and flooding light over delicate eyelids. He wakes slowly, light-headed and frowning, one hand coming up to cover his eyes. Sitting up from the tree he'd been sprawled against, he leans his elbows in his knees, frowning slightly at the ache in his lower back, the barest echo of-

Black eyes open wide, bleeding red immediately, peering through trembling fingers at the empty forest surrounding him. Nothing. No one.

The hatred wells up again, bright and sharp and overwhelming. Sasuke stands, using his katana to push himself up before sliding it back into its place at his back. He turns - Hebi must be nearby, he can feel the slight pull from his cursed seal that signals Juugo's proximity - only to find the kunai, dug into the tree above him.

It's been a long time since he last saw his brother's handwriting, but the letters are more familiar than anything else. He sucks in a breath and burns the note before he can think about it, and stalks away. Their next encounter will require more planning, more training. He'll be strong enough soon.

_Next time, it will be real._


	2. Luxuria

**Luxuria** - Zabuza x Haku

_Lust, noun - intense sexual desire or appetite._

It is only a job, no more than anything has ever been. Haku has taken missions without him before, and will again if they are to continue living as they do. Zabuza tries not to become uneasy as he waits for the boy to leave. He has no job until morning; jobs at night are like this, and he has never allowed Haku to take one before, but tonight he has no say in it. Their employer demands, and so to be paid for all their work he must allow this one thing.

He seriously considers forfeiting that three months' pay when Haku steps out of his bedroom.

The kimono is black as night and looks to be just as heavy. The landscape painted along the hem, sloping upward across the bottom of one sleeve, suggests a quiet snow-covered hillside. The opposite sleeve has but one adornment, a single white crane in flight. The obi is a slash of color - bright red with delicate little cherry blossoms picked out in gold thread - wound just tight enough to give a more feminine shape, although the boy doesn't really need the help. He's swept his hair up into a loose bun, no trailing bangs to frame his face tonight, and a single silk flower trailing petals down from his temple. He did not paint his face - there is only a hint of red to his lips, the slight underscore of kohl around his eyes - but then, he is so beautiful already.

Haku does not look at his master as he leaves their small apartment. He does not dare.

_Fourteen years old and oh so eager to please, a pretty little boy with a sweet little smile, naive as ever. Haku is bolder now that Zabuza suspected he would be, lingering outside the bathroom door when he knows his master is done with the shower, catching his hand to hold when they walk together. But he blushes brightly after their mission, when Zabuza strips him down to check the little cuts and scratches on his pale skin._

It's his duty to teach the boy, isn't it, so he lays Haku down on the bed and shows him. Their fingers thread together, encircling his innocent cock, and it isn't long at all before the boy is gasping, warm wetness spilling over their entwined fingers to pool on his stomach.

There has never been a night so long. Zabuza attempts to convince himself that it is nothing, that he should go to sleep and ignore it, because Haku will be back before morning. But he finds he cannot rest, cannot sit still, cannot stop pacing the floor.

Cannot remove the image from his head.

He's seen Haku dressed up before, though never quite like this, but it's hardly ever affected him. It might be jealousy - another man sits with the boy tonight, buys him sake and laughs at his charming little jokes, takes him back to a quiet hotel room to-

Bleed all over the floor, in all likelihood, he reminds himself sharply. No sweet caresses for that man, only a swift death.

But Haku is meticulous. When he slips back through their door at the break of dawn, not a single drop of blood stains him or his clothes.

_It takes him until fifteen to convince Zabuza that they should do more than that, that he wants to be touched by him that way and it isn't taking advantage. And Zabuza doesn't really hesitate to give the boy what he's asking for, because now that Haku is really asking he finds that he can't justify saying no, not when he wants it so badly._

And he offers it so freely too, begs to be allowed to touch his master, begs to be kissed, begs to be fucked - only he doesn't say it like that, no, only pretty words fall from those soft, kiss-swollen lips, and Zabuza can't help but give in.

It's probably wrong but it doesn't feel that way, and he never tries to deny how much he wants it again.

He lets Haku remove the kimono himself.

He might have tried, but it would not have been the graceful little show it is if he had done it. The picture comes apart in pieces - Haku's hair falls down around his shoulders, the obi loosens, ties and heavy fabric slowly removed and just as slowly put away until he stands in only a slip, and only then does Zabuza get up from his chair in the corner and take the boy in his arms, pressing hot possessive kisses to that delicate mouth. The boy is used to this treatment, welcomes it, molds himself eagerly against his master's body.

What comes next is predictable - the last bit of fabric that veils porcelain skin is removed without ceremony, Zabuza's own clothes discarded easily as he spreads the boy out on their bed, warm kisses and breathy moans. Haku submits to him happily, eagerly, arches wantonly into him, moans his name - honorifics finally dropped, here in this most private of moments - as knife-sharp teeth sink into unmarred skin where neck meets shoulder. This bite is deeper than any he's received before, one that will surely scar. One that will surely mark him as possessed, claimed, owned.

Haku screams when he comes, beautiful body tensing, but that's not what does it. No, it's after he's caught his breath, when he's making that little hitched noise at every thrust, when he reaches up to thread his fingers through Zabuza's short hair and his soft lips barely brush his ear as he whispers "please..." in that delicate, needy voice. That's what pushes him over the edge.

It's desire, he thinks, rolling to the side and easily sliding an arm around Haku's waist, pulling the boy tight against himself. It can't be anything more than that.


	3. Superbia

**Author's Note:** I wrote this particular chapter after staying up for 30 consecutive hours writing about medieval literature. I was literally incoherent and hallucinating – which was fun for me, but probably means this is a little hard to follow. But I still like it.

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**Superbia **– Orochimaru x Sasuke  
><em>Pride, noun - a high or inordinate opinion of one's own dignity, importance, merit, or superiority, whether as cherished in the mind or as displayed in bearing, conduct, etc.<em>

Tired didn't cover it. he was exhausted, depleted, mentally and physically incapable of going any further. He'd been awake - trapped awake, forcefully tied to that-which-was-awake by the burning, the aching, the pain - for more than a couple days. But he couldn't sleep, couldn't succumb, couldn't sit still when his skin felt like it was on fire, couldn't fall asleep because if he fell asleep it would mean he'd failed the test.

He couldn't remember what the hell the test entailed anymore, or why it was important - he couldn't remember anything, nothing but how much it burned, how much he wanted to just rip it off his skin, and no matter how much he scratched the itching and the pain just got _worse_ - but he knew he had to stay awake. He had to outlast something. He thought maybe he had to outlast the pain.

The visions came with it, too, creeping crawling things He didn't notice them at first, little squirming black shapes he could only see out the corner of his eye, slowly worming forward, shivering shuddering tentacles and thick black pincers, fangs dripping black red fire like ice on his skin, bigger things harsher things twisting everywhere around him, catch his legs and his hands and there's the snake, the big goddamn snake poised over him leaning over him fangs in his neck-

No. No, not. Only in his head.

Blood comes, under his nails, something he can't make sense of for a long time because they creeping crawling blackness itches around the edges, but in between he realizes he scratched his skin raw, worse than raw, bloody and open but not _that_ spot, the mark's still there like fire.

But he won't. He won't sleep. He has to stay awake.

They get more vivid, get warmer, more frequent, over and over the snake, but then it isn't anymore, is it, it's the other thing. It's the man, but he's not, not anymore, he's something stretched and curved and even more awful, something with long digging claws and harsh breath and fangs sunk deep in his bleeding open flesh. Snakes that tangled around his legs at sibilant orders, coarse shivering scales around ankles, around wrists, around neck, pulling him tight pulling him apart, breaking him, burning him. Sharp nails on skin, on throat, on chest, on hips, on thighs, long red lines all over. Marks and marks and marks. It doesn't feel good but he thinks he's reacting, thinks he's succumbing, giving in, arching and shuddering and needing and it should be easy, shouldn't hurt at all when he stretched wide open like this, when he's twisted and pulled and curved into the right shape. That's how it is. He doesn't know if he can feel it, doesn't know if it's good or bad, tries to connect it to something, to some moment, but there aren't any moments, nothing.

It's still burning-itching-clawing under his skin and he shudders, he squirms, the snake laughs and laughs and laughs and it's inside him, making him writhe and shake and laughing when he likes it he doesn't want to like it. He can't help it, can't do anything about it can only feel it and want it and beg for it _harder-faster-more_ until he's coming but that part doesn't feel good, not like he expected.

Retract. Shivers and squirms and claws slipping out of skin-into skin. Whimpering is he whimpering and little moans too, and the creeping crawl curls back and back until it's just those little shivers again, little worms and blobs and tendrils in the corner of his vision. Curls up in a ball, tight and safe and confused, hands tangled in short black hair feeling slick like blood but who's bleeding, he is, where he scratched it, scratched and scratched until it all came off under his nails.

It will come again, he doesn't want it to. He wants to be finished, to be done, to be safe, to leave this room and the shadows and the shapes in the corners and the not-real memories of things that didn't happen, won't happen, can't ever be allowed to happen.

Tremble. The door creaks.

First it's light, but then the light shivers and he doesn't scream but it's reaching for him, long bright fingers like sunshine and for a moment just a moment he could be home, home in the trees with sunshine in his hair, home where the brightest thing in the world is smiling and touching his cheek and everything is bright-

"Did he really stay in iso for a week?" Kabuto asks, stock still.

Suigetsu grins. He likes having the knowledge. He taps on the glass of his tank and swirls himself upside down, peering at his bespectacled captor. "Hell if I know. But Orochimaru-sama said that was the only way to get full control. Five days fighting it all by yourself."

"What was he like when they dragged him out?" The medic seems so perturbed.

"Na, Kabuto-kun, too bad Orochimaru-sama sent you on that mission, you would've been here to see them pull him out..."

"You must have seen, Suigetsu. The door's right there."

"Heh. I dunno, you gonna let me out...?"

Kabuto punches the glass - pent up frustration, nothing more - and stalks away. Suigetsu surveys the crack with displeasure. A millimeter off.

He recovers - he always recovers, doesn't he - but it's not that. Not the blood, not the echo of scarring over his shoulder, not the memories, even. No. It was worth it - worth every minute, as usual, he's done exactly what he wanted to do and exactly what they told him would be hard to achieve, wouldn't want to prove that the _genius_ wasn't as special as they said he was.

Orochimaru smirks at him on the training ground, tosses the kunai at him casually, laughs when the wing sprouts instantly from between his shoulder blades to protect him - _burning, twinging, just a little_ - and there's something in that laugh like he knows, or like maybe it wasn't all hallucination, but that can't be true.

"So, Sasuke, shall we move on to the next test? Or do you need more time to recover..."

"It's fine. Let's start now."

He won't. He won't give, won't let the thoughts overwhelm, won't let anything. He's the strongest, always was, stronger than anyone - yeah, stronger than everyone, stronger than his teachers his parents his brother Naruto-

He won't be beaten. Not again.


End file.
